


Spare Change

by pokey_jr



Series: Only Sequences Change [11]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Fluff, bigotry against androids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-15 09:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16060679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: The half hour bus ride home gives you plenty of (unwelcome) time to contemplate your growing fascination with your newest regular customer. You thumb the quarter in your pocket the whole way, shoulder to shoulder with androids and people since public transport had been desegregated.It occurs to you that some of the people might actually be androids. They aren’t required to self-identify anymore, not by clothing or any other way.The usual aversion you feel towards them is muted today. Connor is on your mind instead. He’s so straightforward, he tips the scale back to enigmatic. Every time he had come in, another question had piled on, and now all you can think about is the little quirk of a smile he’d bestowed on you, and how soft his lips might be on yours, and if he’d kiss you back.**Connor keeps stopping in to buy coffee, for some reason, and it's all too easy to develop a crush on him, even if oneisskeptical about androids.





	Spare Change

In the chaos of the morning rush, you hadn’t noticed him come in. Hadn’t spotted the tell-tale luminescent blue accents on his CyberLife-issued jacket as you pinballed between the register and the service counter and the three drip machines against the wall under the chalkboard menu.

You place an espresso and a whipped-cream doused latte on the counter, calling out the orders over the din.

“Espresso for Melissa, latte with whipped cream and three pumps of vanilla for Xiong!”

Don’t wait to see them get snatched up before you’re on to the next customers, maintaining the precarious, hectic rhythm of brewing, counting out change, and serving.

Greeting every customer with a smile is a challenge. Your feet hurt already, there’s no chance of a break in sight. You’d opened at 6am, and you’re the only one here right now, three hours later. The only staff the owner of _Has-Bean_ can afford.

Still, it’s a job. A decently-paying job, and there’s a set of Detroiters who make it a point to support human-owned and -run businesses. You have regulars who greet you by name, ask how things are going, drop a dollar in the tip jar even though for some of them a cup of coffee is, itself, a luxury.

You grab some empty cups that people have bussed to the counter, toss them in the sink where dirty dishes have already piled high, reassuring yourself that the crowds will die down enough within half an hour that you can make a getaway to the restroom. 

“Good morning.”

You hear a pleasant voice from behind you, and turn, wiping your hands on the rag tucked in the front pocket of your apron. “Hi, welcome—“

_Android._ Your throat tightens. He’s tall, brown haired. ‘RK800’ is emblazoned on the right breast of his jacket; a model you don’t recognize, though you can’t bring yourself to study him closely. There’s no rule against him being in here, of course. Not anymore. “What can I get you?” You ask tersely, unable to muster your usual warmth.

“One large black coffee, please.”

“Name?”

“My name is Connor.”

“For here or to-go?”

“To-go, please.”

You ring it up, resolutely not making eye contact. There’s no point anyway. People come here for the human touch, the android-free atmosphere.

How’s he even going to pay? Androids don’t carry cash, they pay by linking wirelessly with other androids. “That’ll be four fifty including the city fee for the disposable cup and lid.” Here it comes, he’ll have to ask, don’t you accept link transfers, and you’ll get the petty satisfaction of telling him _no_ —

“This should cover it.” He places a crisp five dollar bill on the counter, which you take, punch in the amount on the antique cash register, count out his change. Fifty cents back, and you note with absent interest that one of the two quarters you slide to him on the counter is rare, and old—an eagle on it instead of the newer designs.

“Thank you,” he says, but you turn away, busy fixing his order, and moving on to the line that’s accumulated while he slowed you down.

Even so, making brief, comfortable conversation with Julie, a regular, you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

“Bizarre, aren’t they?” Julie remarks in an undertone. “Now that they’re more human?”

You nod, starting her drink, which you know by heart, before taking her cash and giving back the appropriate change. “First one I’ve ever gotten in here, even after the referendum. He’s alone, too.”

He thanks you again when you put the large black coffee out for him; you only raise your eyes when he takes it and turns to go. The crowd parts for him, and you glimpse him in profile: handsome, impeccably neat, and pleasantly mild, though there’s a keenness to him. As he makes his way out the door, you get the impression that not very much escapes his notice.

“It’s gotta be a one-off.”

“Some wealthy asshole was in the area, wanted coffee, and sent his android to get it for him.”

Your regulars offer their opinions one-by-one, and you listen, nodding impassively, until it devolves to an argument among several about whether there are any androids left who willingly serve people since the deviant uprising. Then you tune out, the rush dies down, you finally tackle the overfull sink, hoping that the strange, polite android had just been a one-time thing.

_He was cute._ The thought pops in your mind, as unwelcome as his unexpected appearance had been. You shove it away, along with the lingering unease that androids always bring.

Later, at the end of your shift, you take the contents of the tip jar. Owner’s policy, for which you’re always grateful, because if there’s enough you get to eat two meals a day instead of one. You count out all of it: a five and nine ones. Enough for something cheap. A handful of coins, too, and as you pile the quarters in stacks of four, you note, with a strange jolt of curiosity, the rare eagle. Rare enough that it must be the same one you’d handed as change earlier to that android.

You keep it. Not one to hang on to spare change, but it takes up residence in your left hand jacket pocket, and doesn’t get spent.

**

He returns the next day, same time, same outfit, same order, same cash amount.

_Who the hell is giving him money for this?_ Any decent person would know not to send their android on an errand in a place like this.

Same perfected air of calm in the face of general disdain. As human as he’s supposed to look, he stands out in the crowd, his carefully-designed idiosyncrasies making him somehow more irritating.

In the usual rush, you forget to watch the tip jar, and instead get distracted when he orders, because he tilts his head and gives you a small smile when you remember his name—

“Connor, right?”

“Correct.”

“What can I get you?” You’re not _trying_ to be accommodating, and certainly not friendly. “Same as yesterday?”

“Yes, please.”

But he acts as if you are. Unfailingly polite, and you think—can’t be sure, but you _think_ — he’s left all the change again as a tip.

And again, the day after. Looking at him still makes you uncomfortable, and you don’t even bother with the strained smile you give human customers you don’t like. Probably doesn’t matter. Androids don’t care about niceties. And you suspect he keeps tipping you anyway, though you haven’t caught him at it yet.

All through the week, Monday through Saturday, he keeps coming back. Always neatly dressed, even though Friday morning brings a thunderstorm.

Rain always has a way of thinning the typical morning crowd. During the lull, you lean against the back counter, trying to ignore your gurgling stomach, and focus on the soothing grey of the downpour outside. It’s nearly empty in here, only a couple tables occupied. The quiet allows you to hear when the bell jingles.

It’s the android again. Right on time. And apparently not one to use an umbrella. Water streams off his hair, down his face, his grey jacket and jeans and boots. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you reject the instinct to offer him a towel, although he is tracking water in, and you’ll be the one who has to mop that up later.

You meet him at the counter.

“Good morning.”

“Is it?” You look away, already starting to ring up and prepare one large black coffee. At his odd silence, you glance back up, and find him staring at you.

“Yes, I think it is. Although, my programming isn’t meant to distinguish between good and bad. Only evaluate outcomes, and select subsequent responses. But-- ” his expression softens with genuine curiosity, “—I really only meant to wish you a good morning. Is that not a thing humans say anymore?”

You really shouldn’t be noticing his hair right now. The fact that it’s shiny with water, dark and silky looking, and he has that one lock that falls to the left, which you’d really like to reach out and comb back in place for him—

“Are you alright?” He tilts his head, and you get the sense you’re being scanned.

“Fine,” you snip at him, and for some reason you’re blushing. He’s staring at you too intensely, that’s why. NOT for any other reason. “This _is_ what you want, right? Your usual?” You’d never dare be this rude with a human customer. It feels wrong, somehow, with him too. Unfair, and are you REALLY worrying about hurting an android’s feelings? But you can’t help yourself.

“Please,” he inclines his head. “And I’m sorry for getting the floor wet.”

Wanting an excuse to stay even slightly irritated at him, you ignore the apology and fix his drink. Throughout the week, you’ve wondered who it’s for. What, and who, exactly, he is. Asking wouldn’t be out of line, you make small talk with customers all the time. The one thing humans have left to be better at than androids.

Too late. His order doesn’t take long enough to make, and you hand him the paper cup. Maybe you should suggest that he bring in his own reusable mug, like most of your customers do, save a few bucks. “Here you go.” 

“Thank you, miss…” his gaze drops below your eye level, to your chest. He stares longer than necessary, zoning out.

You cross your arms reflexively, like he’s any other creepy customer who feels entitled to check you out, though that’s not really the vibe you get from him. More like he’s scanning you, again. Still. RUDE.

“Hey!” You snap at him. “What are you doing?”

He blinks rapidly, brought out of his reverie. “I was looking for your name badge. My programming directs me to address all humans by name, if I know of one, and failing that, a title. I couldn’t find either one for you.”

You frown at him. “Aren’t I in the National Citizens Database?”

“Most likely, yes. But I’m not authorized to access it for any reason unrelated to my job.”

“Job?”

“I’m a prototype,” he tells you earnestly. “A detective assigned to assist the Detroit Police Department.” 

That’s a jarring thing to hear. You have a handful of regular customers from the DPD. Most are uniformed beat cops, though several are plainclothes detectives. Some are kinder than others, though the idea that any of them might be edged out of a salaried job by an android is upsetting.

How can a machine know the measure of pain, and despair, and humiliation-- all the hurt that comes with not being good enough to earn a living? 

Even if he _is_ an android, it’s very hard to snark at someone who’s so polite. You resort to staring at him right back. His eyes are brown and warm, his expression open. The corner of his mouth twitches up in an almost-smile and in that moment you swear to yourself-- _swear_ it-- that you won’t get some stupid crush on him, because he’s weird and unwelcome, and an android for crying out loud.

But you feel your heart beat faster. Curiosity shocks you, like a hand shooting out to grab your wrist and pull you off course. What does he want?

What does he dream of? Why, after the android uprising, is he still an errand boy for the people who probably shot at his friends?

How does he see the world?

What _can_ he know?

“Is everything alright?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. His voice is as warm as the rest of his demeanor, calm and un-intrusive.

“Yeah. I’m-- everything’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he actually means it. “I have to go.” He inclines his head.

He takes the coffee and leaves, and you notice, for the first time, how he moves. Precise and efficient. Nothing wasted.

You wonder if you might see him again, if only to have your questions answered.

**

On Sunday afternoon, the end of your week, you wait restlessly for the android.

_My name is Connor._ You hear his pleasant, even voice in your head, picture the peculiar ways he moves, and how he enters the cafe. Scans from left to right, cataloguing everything, and then fixates on—

You.

He doesn’t show up.

“Have you had any androids come in as customers recently?” You ask Jamie, your replacement, at shift changeover.

He looks at you expectantly, as if you’ve just given him the set up for a joke.

You match his expression. “I’m not kidding.”

“Uh… no. No I haven’t. Kinda figured they knew not to come in here. Could be a deviancy thing?”

“Could be,” you allow, though you’re hazy about how android deviancy actually works. No number of explainer articles in _Century_ magazine had succeeded in making sense of it, and several months after the uprising, news pundits debate the issue ad nauseum on TV.

“I did have a dude on red ice try to swipe the tip jar.”

“No shit. Me too! Really short, skinny, with like, a gross, scraggly goatee?”

“That’s the one—“ Jamie interrupts himself to help a customer who approaches the counter.

“You haven’t seen Hank recently, have you?” You wait to ask until Jamie’s done with the order, and you have one foot out the door, with your apron folded over your arm.

“Who?"

“You know, the cop. Grey beard, usually cranky, smells like whiskey?”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t think so. Can’t say I remember him.”

You adjust your bag strap over your shoulder, and, by way of farewell, remind him to give away the stale pastries by the time he closes. Anyone who had met Hank would remember him, you think. For better or worse, he makes an impression.

Same with that android, or maybe that’s just you. The half hour bus ride home gives you plenty of (unwelcome) time to contemplate your growing fascination with your newest regular customer. You thumb the quarter in your pocket the whole way, shoulder to shoulder with androids and people since public transport had been desegregated.

It occurs to you that some of the people might actually be androids. They aren’t required to self-identify anymore, not by clothing or any other way.

The usual aversion you feel towards them is muted today. Connor is on your mind instead. He’s so straightforward, he tips the scale back to enigmatic. Every time he had come in, another question had piled on, and now all you can think about is the little quirk of a smile he’d bestowed on you, and how soft his lips might be on yours, and if he’d kiss you back.

**

“Hey Hank!”

He grunts.

“Having a good morning?”

He grunts again, lifts his chin and glares at you. You beam at him, already starting on his usual order: large caramel drizzle cappuccino with extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of chocolate shavings.

There is something deeply satisfying about meeting his eternal crankiness with persistent cheer, especially on a Sunday morning like this.

You’ve tried with other grumpy customers, but it just isn’t the same. He’s not looking very good today, but then he rarely does. A web of broken capillaries covers his sunken cheeks and blunt, rectangular nose. Eyes are bloodshot, grizzled hair coarse and unkempt. His clothes are rumpled. You can smell the whiskey lingering on him, he’s been drinking for so long it’s in his pores.

Hank has a way of timing his coffee runs such that he avoids the crowds, and you comment on this to him, as you often do. He shrugs, gives his typical response, which is that he can only deal with so much bullshit this early in the day.

You hum in agreement, and ponder bringing up the unusual android customer you’ve dealt with for the past week. Hank’s always up for a good round of complaining, though you vaguely recall him mentioning something about an android at work. He seems like he’s changed over the past few months, though you’re not sure how that all fits together. But he has been smoothed around the edges. He smiles a bit more easily.

“How’re things at the precinct?’ You ask instead. “Any cool cases? Anything juicy?”

You turn back to him in time to see him put the whole ten dollar bill in the tip jar for you, instead of paying at all. You’d only stopped thanking him for doing that when he’d threatened to arrest you for ‘being too nice, it’s suspicious’.

“Same shit different day. Assholes trying to get away with stuff they know they shouldn’t be doing.”

“Did I tell you someone tried to grab the tip jar and run?”

Hank does not look surprised. “Nope. Might wanna think about bolting that thing down.”

“Maybe.” You drizzle in three times the called-for amount of caramel, and extra pinches of chocolate shavings. Sometimes you suspect Hank keeps coming back to you not for the preferential treatment, but because you had laughed in his face the first AND second times he’d placed such a ridiculous order.

“Was it a junkie? Or just some desperate kid?”

“Red ice. Sooooo… both?” You hand him the drink. If you didn’t luck into this job, that desperate kid could very well be _you_.

Hank grumbles his thanks, but sounds defeated.

“You gonna make it today?” You ask him lightly, wondering how bad his hangover is.

“Eh” He takes a hearty slug of the coffee, leaving whipped cream on his mustache. “I’ll be fine.” He makes to leave, then remembers one last thing.

“Oh, by the way. Precinct's standing up a new task force. Anti-android hate crimes are getting out of hand—“

You know what’s coming next, and start shaking your head before he’s finished. “Hank, I’m not—“

“Just listen! Hear me out. Six month internship, and at the end, the possibility of transitioning to a full time position.”  
The idea of it is enticing, and just out of reach. Too painful to hope for. And so you decline, again, with the reasons you’ve given him before. Can’t afford to take an unpaid, full time position. Can’t afford to quit your jobs and then not be able to get them back in half a year when you aren’t selected to join the force. 

It’s your eight day working in a row, though you don’t mention this. You’d needed to request an extra shift, having come up almost a hundred dollars short on rent. Your life feels unmoored. Drifting, and precarious. You must simply make do, can’t hope for much more than that. Have to depend on the generosity of people who can’t really afford to be generous.

“Look.” He comes back to the counter to grab a few napkins and wipe his mustache. “Take some time, think it over. Could use someone like you.”

**

Weeks go by. Connor becomes a fixture of most of your mornings. Hank comes by less often, about every other Sunday. Every time you try to persuade him to bring his own mug—you know he has one, because he bought the café-branded one at your urging—he grouses and reminds you of the internship.

_Someone like you._ The words come to mind every time you look up from the register and see Connor step forward. Sometimes he’s doing tricks with a quarter. Snapping it from hand to hand, or spinning it edgewise and making it hop from one fingertip to the next. It’s his way of zoning out, you suppose, or entertaining himself (his screensaver, maybe?), but he always stops when he speaks to you.

Would the station even want you, when they had him? You can make coffee. He can do coin tricks and probably a hell of a lot more, and all better than you.

“Good morning. The usual, please.” He seems to enjoy saying that.

You’ve already started on it, and the next few drinks for some of your regulars you see behind him. “You got it.” And through the familiar routine of taking his cash, giving change, and the sleight of hand he performs to tip you without you catching him in the act. “Do you ever make coffee at work, Connor?”

The rare attempt at small talk doesn’t faze him. “No. A detective who resented my presence on the force demanded that I make him a cup of coffee. I refused, and he became upset.”

It occurs to you, with a sudden pang of shame, that you’d asked assuming Connor didn’t have a choice. You can’t imagine yourself doing anything other than hover in the breakroom and make coffee for whoever wanders in. That’s probably not what Hank has in mind.

You bustle around the little kitchen, with several drinks going at once, but not in any particular hurry to dismiss Connor. You still haven’t asked him why he comes to buy coffee most days, and he hasn’t volunteered the information. “What happened then?” You look over in time to see an odd expression cross his face, though you can’t quite place what it is, and it reminds you, again, that despite everything, he’s not human.

“He punched me in the abdomen.”

_“What?”_

“And then he left without getting any coffee.”

“Wait, go back to the part about him punching you, that’s crazy—“

He doesn’t get a chance to answer; a loud, shrill ‘excuse me!’ issues from somewhere further back in the line. You tip your head to peer around Connor, and see a young man—maybe younger than you— wave his arm in the air, as if you’re too dense to notice him otherwise.

“What’s the holdup!”

You don’t recognize him, he’s not a regular. He has a small dog on a leash, a cellphone pressed to his cheek.

“That expression of ‘excuse me’ didn’t sound polite,” Connor observes, more to you than anything else. He steps aside, and you keep the line moving, accepting payment and passing the appropriate drinks to regulars, who mostly disperse, out the door, a few to tables.

The man on the phone is next, carrying on half a conversation there, and half with you. There’s nothing that gets you riled faster than customers like this; you do your best smile (more of a grimace) and ask him for his order.

He pauses just long enough to sneer something about vanilla soy, and gives Connor, who’s hovering in front of the pastry display, a look of revulsion.

Connor tilts his head serenely, not oblivious, but unconcerned. Only observing. Something twists in you.  
“Name?” You prompt, since the guy resumes yelling into his phone again.

Typical. You’ve noticed that it’s mostly the younger customers who are obnoxious, entitled assholes. Older people remember life before androids, and many, you’ve surmised, at one point had to work a service job just like the one you’re doing now. That’s a rarity these days. Those who didn’t suffer it end up like him.

“Name?” You ask again, and he apologizes to the person on the phone before sniping at you.

You hold your tongue, turn to start on the vanilla soy latte. Still haven’t given Connor his order, but he seems to have gone into standby mode or something, zoning out at the asshole on the phone, who’s starting complaining loudly about slow service, prices, laziness, and then you hear—

“fuckin androids, there’s one staring at me right now, it’s creeping me out.”

\--and that twisting wrenches too far, and snaps.

You trash the drink without adding toppings, go back to the register, and ask him to leave. He’s causing a scene.  
From there, the exchange goes pretty much as you’d expect. Indignation. Outrage. Insults at you and Connor and androids. Avowal to never frequent _Has-Bean_ again.

Blood roars in your ears. Fine with you. Attitudes like his aren’t welcome here, you inform him, your patience hanging by a thread, reinforced only by Connor’s unflappable composure. He can apologize or leave.

Wrong thing to say. You weather the barrage of abuse until finally the guy storms out in a fit of apoplexy, yanking his dog’s leash.

The door slams shut, bell jingling. The whole place has cleared out. You look back at Connor, awkward and apologetic. There’s a slight furrow between his eyebrows, which you misinterpret.

“Sorry,” you begin. “Sorry you had to… see that.”

“I’m fine,” he says evenly. “I—I’m concerned about that man’s dog.”

“What? Oh.”

“It showed signs of distress, and abuse. There were contusions around its neck and snout.”

“it was a real dog?” You ask, before you catch how rude that sounds. As if it matters. As if androids aren’t real. As if Connor, and his feelings, aren’t real. _Come on, get your head straight._ You hand him his large black coffee to cover your embarrassment. 

“Yes,” he replies. Unusually distant, until he accepts the cup, his fingers brush yours, and the attraction to him you’ve repressed surges anew.

How strange, that he seems to smile with his eyes, or maybe you’re just imagining it. “Thank you.”

Suddenly you need to stop him. You need him to stay, and you come around the counter. It’s strange, and new, to stand with nothing between you; you ruin the moment by wiping your cheek. “I think that guy got spit on me when he was yelling.”

He says nothing, listening patiently, until he determines you’re done.

“I should go. I apologize for any disturbance I may have caused.”

“Connor, wait. I have to ask, why do you keep coming back here?”

“I like it here,” Connor says, after a moment of consideration. “It’s cozy.” He conveys this with a kind of earnest conviction, which initially puts you off. Androids aren’t supposed to have a concept of what’s comfortable and what’s not. A pleasant, quiet space isn’t supposed to evoke anything in them.

You clear your throat. He’s quite tall. He’d have to bend down to kiss you. “What’s, um… what parts are cozy? What do you like about it?”

He looks around. You note the LED on his temple, spinning from blue to yellow. _Processing…_

“The ceiling. It’s a molded pattern, 17.5 feet high. Constructed early 20th century. It was a house first, then this first floor was a ballet studio. The floors are original, you can see over by that wall, the unusual wear on the floor boards. There probably used to be a bar where the dancers practiced.”

You turn to look over your shoulder where he’s pointing, but don’t see it. He sets the coffee down on the counter, puts his hands on your shoulder and spins you around.

All at once, he’s very close. Maddeningly close, and he still has one hand on your shoulder, the other pointing out details of the architecture and design you’d never noticed before. 

The windows are oriented north-west, allowing an optimal amount of natural light throughout all times of day.  
And the smell of coffee, but ignore that, and you can sense more, can’t you? The wood polish and warm, worn leather, and the musty doilies the owner won’t allow anyone to throw away.

The views across the street are nice: a flower shop, a pet store, an art gallery. Here inside is the perfect refuge to watch the minutiae of other people’s lives play out, though he phrases it as ‘gathering data’.

You hadn’t thought of it that way. Had never sat at the table he indicates, the one by the window, but now you can imagine sitting at it across from him, and you want nothing more than know what it feels like to hold his hand. To know him deeply, and for that quiet, familiar intimacy to become your language of ‘are you okay’, a keeper of secret things and shared smiles.

“Huh.” Is all you can say, after you turn to face him again.

He watches you, too perceptive, his LED still yellow.

The strength of your affection catches you short of breath—how shallow you must seem to him! How transparent, and uncertain, swinging from one extreme to another. At the mercy of emotions, so unpredictable they leave you twisting in the wind.

Your heart beats wildly, filling your chest with a fluttery excitement. You swallow thickly, “That’s, uh, nice, very informative. But I meant why do you keep getting coffee? You don’t drink coffee, do you? Is that a thing. Do androids drink coffee now? I’ve never heard of them drinking it, I thought they—you—I thought you didn’t need food…”

Connor waits for you to run out of breath and stop talking before politely replying. “No. I get coffee for my partner at the police precinct. I like doing favors for him. He’s my best friend. Plus he needs it. He drinks too much, so he’s usually hungover.”

You watch Connor with the sort of sinking feeling of an unrequited, inevitable crush. The lightness of infatuation in conflict with that weight, which addles your mind enough that what he just said doesn’t register immediately.

_Hungover._ No, it couldn’t be… And besides, the drink orders are polar opposites, and the idea of Hank having a best friend is absurd.

“I really should get going,” Connor reminds you, before adding, “you appear flushed. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you say, though you’re not. You turn away to retrieve his coffee, and behind your back hear the clink of coins in the tip jar. One of these days, you’ll catch him at it. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” He accepts it, and inhales its scent; curiosity flickers across his features.

“Connor?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could teach me those coin tricks sometime?”

“Alright. But I have to warn you, my biosystems and programming make it look easier than it actually is. For humans. Any android could do it.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone besides you do it before.”

He shrugs, a totally natural gesture, accompanied by a disarming smile. “They could if they wanted.”

**

“Huh,” Hank grunts at you. “Maybe you really aren’t cut out for police work. Took you long enough to put it together…”

Upon seeing Hank again, on a Sunday when he clearly did not want to be anywhere except drinking more, you had questioned him about work, and the internship, and most importantly, any androids working at the station.

You’d tried your best to hide your pique of interest in the connection, at the fact that an android considers this cranky asshole his best friend. You have to wonder if Hank feels the same, but as he endures your questions, you conclude that he does-- that he loves Connor like a son.

_“Well?”_ Hank asks. “Was that enough to convince you?”

You sigh, doing the math in your head. “Could you really swing it so I could live in the new recruit housing?”

“The barracks, yeah. Probably. Wouldn’t be the easiest living situation if you aren’t used to it.”

You take out the quarter that has inhabited various pockets of your clothing for the past few months. The prospect of possibly working with Connor in the most enticing aspect of this whole thing; as you fidget with the coin you again try to dismiss your pathetic infatuation and focus on practical matters.

Even with free housing for the six months, you’d have to find a way to afford food, and there’s no guarantee of a paying job at the end of it. Would be safer just to stay here. Making coffee. Forever.

“Where’d you get that?”

“This?” You hand it to him “Tip jar.”

He turns it over, grumbling, but you can tell it’s his ‘this is interesting’ grumble, and not his ‘I hate everything and everyone’ grumble. At last he gives it back. “Be glad you didn’t spend it. That thing’s worth a bit.”

“Really!?” excitement makes you knock over a cup of milk you were steaming. _“Shit.”_

As you clean up, Hank answers the question he knows you’re yearning to ask. “Fifteen thousand. Maybe more, depending on the date.”

A horrible thought intrudes suddenly; you imagine one, out of all the times you’d been turning the quarter over in your pocket, had you dropped it somehow, watched in roll away, fall in a storm drain. You pat the pocket where you’d just put it away, then zip the pocket closed. 

“I’m no collector,” he assures you. “Stupidest way to waste money I can think of.”

To be sure, you personally can’t imagine have fifteen grand to spend on ANOTHER piece of money. People are weird. Then again, you have a crush on an android.

“You should take it to an appraiser. See how much you can actually get for it.” He lifts his chin like a challenge. “…unless you feel like keeping it.” _Which only an idiot would do_ , is the clear subtext there. You shake your head. Plans are already forming in your mind, nebulous visions of a future, which somehow includes a scene of you and Connor strolling in a park, hand in hand.

You sigh, and shake your head to dismiss that image. “You said the barracks aren’t easy? What’s it like?”

Hank almost smiles. He must know he’s got you, and he motions to a table. “You have a few minutes?” 

**

The countdown to your last day brings rising trepidation and doubt. What if you’re making the wrong decision? You’re giving up a steady income, as well as fixed rent that you know you’ll be able to afford for at least a couple more years.

The longer you wait, the harder it becomes to approach Connor with an apology. But he deserves one. It’s not just for your own peace of mind. How could you ever have hated him? Your memory of how you treated him is painful to admit to yourself, you’ll have to confront it soon.

Yet you put it off. Wait one day, because you see him and he smiles at you and you don’t want to mess it up.

And another day, one bright quiet morning, when he holds up a quarter between his index and middle finger and asks, “ready?” In the empty shop (lack of customers not a good sign, perhaps it’s for the best that you’ll be moving on soon) he stands behind you, hands on your forearms, speaking low and steady in your ear. 

_Relax, you’re tense, it’s all in the wrist._ He sounds so human, you could be forgiven for mistaking him for anything other than a machine, but then he observes your precise heart rate, and the spike in dopamine, and he finally reminds you that humans need to breathe. 

Of course. How silly of you. Forgetting to breathe. Inhale, exhale, and all that. While he’s hovering there at your back, appropriately spaced and you’d rather he NOT be. You’d rather he press himself against you, make you feel the ridge of his erection, if androids even have urges like that. Probably not, but that doesn’t stop you from getting distracted, nor does it weaken the potency of your arousal, because fuck he’s right behind you and it’s too easy to fantasize about dragging him into the back room and showing him how you’d like him to kiss your neck as he fucks you.

One day, a second day, a third, and fourth day in a row, he comes in, orders, then sits down and reads.

He carries a book with him. What was the outdated term you’d heard Hank use?

Oh yeah— _hipster._

An android reading. Such a simple act of enjoyment; it shouldn’t be a shocking sight, but regular customers keep shooting him unpleasant looks. Finally, after the rush has died down, you work up the nerve to slide into the seat across from him.

“Good morning.” He looks up from _A History of Jazz in the American Midwest: the 1940’s._

Last day, you realize with a start. Last chance, before you’re sort-of colleagues with him. You’d practiced variations of a most eloquent speech in your head, every bus ride to and from work.

_“Connor, I owe you an apology,”_ it would begin. _“I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I was unwelcoming and bigoted and it was wrong of me to act like that. I’m sorry.”_

He’s staring at you expectantly, and in the aftermath of this conversation, nothing about the way you parse the details can account for what your mouth decides to do in defiance of logic.

“I’m an idiot with a crush on you.” You blurt it out and then freeze.

He tilts his head, bewildered. Clearly doesn’t know how to process this kind of thing, and the LED on his right temple spins from blue to yellow. When he speaks, he’s halting. “My algorithms can’t give me a precedent on how to respond to that—I’m…” He pauses again, searching vast databanks and not finding the right words. Any other time it would be reassuring. One of the most advanced prototypes ever made, rendered uncertain by human weirdness. 

You wait in wrenching silence, brace yourself for a rejection that doesn’t come. He shuts his book without marking the page. 

Then, he reaches up to brush a strand of your hair out of your eyes, and gives you a kind smile. His fingers trail from your hair to your cheek, caressing the skin. Your breath hitches.

Up close, he’s somehow _more_ handsome, and how is it that everything he does makes you giddy? He regards you serenely, head cocked slightly to the left, observing your reactions. As always.

“It’s okay,” he answers your unspoken apology. “Do you want to start over?” And at your grateful nod: “My name is Connor.”

You respond in kind, though your own name sounds distant in your ears, because he’s saying something about how his protocols indicate this is the optimal moment to initiate mouth to mouth contact and he’s leaning over the table, closer, closer.  


In the empty, quiet shop, he kisses you. This one, lambent morning when there’s a break in the clouds and sun in your eyes, he kisses you, not quite hesitant. More like he’s experimenting. Thoroughly. 

You stiffen, though he’d moved slow enough to it, but his lips are soft, pliant. You kiss him back fervently, bring your hand up to grip his forearm, don’t go. Don’t end this too quickly. 

When you part, it’s not far, you pull away needing to breath and knowing he never will. 

“You know Hank hates plain black coffee, right?” It slips out before you can stop yourself. Something about this damn android.

“Yes.” His brow furrows. “He needs to eat healthier. He’s at risk of heart disease.”

You find yourself worrying your lower lip. “The fact that we made out probably isn’t going to help his stress level.”

“No. Luckily I know of several disused rooms at the precinct which are perfect for--” 

“Discussing the history of jazz?” You finish, glancing down at his book.

He almost smiles. You catch it in his eyes. “Find me on your first day and I’ll show you around.”


End file.
